


The Task at Hand

by silentfort



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Communication, Cunnilingus, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Housemate Shenanigans, Light BDSM, everyone's a switch apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort
Summary: “You said to me once,” she begins, softly, “That I’d considered sleeping with you. But that I wasn’t able to so without affecting our working relationship.”He makes some sound, barely a ‘huh’ of acknowledgement. He’s watching her mouth, she realises.“We’ve a few years under our belts since then. What do you think?”





	The Task at Hand

Joan lets her weight fall against the front door as it closes, feeling the impact of locks clicking into place alongside the thudding of her pulse. She's done with this day.

Shoving away from the door, she glances into the dark library as she shrugs out of her hoodie. The hearth is empty even of ashes, it was too mild for a fire for most of last winter and even the thought of one now, in summer, is stifling. The lamp on the mantelpiece hunkers like some sea anemone, lit only by the street lights outside. She’s never understood how Sherlock entertained his ‘houseguests’ in full view of the street. And the sex blanket can’t be that comfortable on bare wooden floors. No matter what Sherlock sleeps on, it has to be better than that.

But then again, maybe not. It’s been a long time since the early days when there seemed to be so many strange women wandering into their kitchen in the mornings that she’d wondered if he was holding auditions. Or maybe he was just showing off. She’s lived here for years, and never seen further than the parlour he’d started keeping his isolation tank in. He might sleep in a hammock for all she knows.

She turns away, hanging up her jacket with a certain vehemence. Thinking about Sherlock’s sexual exploits isn’t doing anything to soothe the skin-crawling irritability that’s been plaguing her all day.

As she starts down the stairs to the kitchen, the rhythmic thwacks of the singlestick into Bob’s innocent rubber head echo up to her. Perhaps the heat is getting to Sherlock as well. It’s been unpleasantly warm for days but in spite of the usual correlation between hot weather and violent crime, their case load has the audacity to remain bare. The lack of a murder to solve has been driving her up the wall.

“Your jog along the riverside yielded nothing of interest?”

She shakes her head, crossing the room behind him as she makes for the sink and a glass of water. “If I ever come across a dead body in the river, you’ll no doubt hear about it on the scanner long before I get home. Aren’t you tired, yet?” She leans against the counter, pushing damp hair back from her forehead. “You’ve been at that since before I left.”

Sherlock’s bare back is sheened with sweat, the base of his throat flushed. “Never fear, Watson. I have no interest in rendering myself unable to respond if we do by chance receive a summons.”

Headstrike. A hit to the shoulder, left side of the throat, then the head again.

“Nevertheless,” he continues, jaw clenched, “as I’m sure you’re well aware, the heat is not conducive to rest. I even reached out to Athena and Minerva to ascertain if they might provide some distraction, but it appears their week is booked solid.”

She sips. Another flurry of blows that would have broken the orbital ridge, mandible, and clavicle, then he threw the stick to the floor, turning to look at her. “A pity,” he raises an eyebrow, crossing the room to casually steal the waterglass from her hand. “It seems you too could have used the distraction.”

She looks up at him and sighs minutely, watching him empty the glass in swallow after swallow. “You and I have very different ideas of what constitutes a distraction.” As he lowers the glass she takes it back with a pointed look, and refills it from the faucet.

“Perhaps.” He passes his hands over his face, scrubbing water out of his stubble and pushing sweat back over his head, leaving his short hair standing on end. “More’s the pity. I find that money - abhorrent as it is - solves a great many problems. Hiring an expert to cater to one’s needs is far less fuss than the usual dancing around the issue you fondly call ‘dating’.”

“Huh,” she smiles faintly, sipping at the water again. “I recall you boasting that no one had taught you anything new in that field in years. I’m surprised you’d call anyone an expert.”

He stops then, watching her sidelong for a long moment. “Perhaps ‘expert’ is too strong a word to use. ‘Professional’ may be more appropriate. Someone who has the capacity to compartmentalise certain acts, in order to seperate them from the rest of their everyday life.”

“Ah,” she sips again.

Sherlock tilts his head, jaw tensing in the way it does when he’s thinking. She looks away from his face, taking in the details of him through peripheral vision - the taut knuckles of his hand where he grips the counter, the trickle of a bead of sweat down the centre of his still-flushed chest, the pulse visible in his throat.

She says nothing. She drinks again, letting her lips linger on the rim of the glass. She wonders what makes her so bold.

It’s probably the weather. _Fuck_ this weather.

Joan glances up. He’s still watching her, pose unchanged.

“You said to me once,” she begins, softly, “That I’d considered sleeping with you. But that I wasn’t able to so without affecting our working relationship.”

He makes some sound, barely a ‘huh’ of acknowledgement. He’s watching her mouth, she realises.

“We’ve a few years under our belts since then. What do you think?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think you could manage it, without affecting our working relationship?”

His gaze flicks up from her mouth to her eyes again, and she can almost read the thought in his face, ‘where is this coming from?’ She hardly knows herself.

“Of course, if you don’t think it’ll work out, then -” Joan turns away, setting the empty glass in the sink. There’s always the option of a cold shower, with maybe a brief and silent masturbation to help her sleep.

“I -”

Halfway across the kitchen already, she pauses. The tone in his voice isn’t one she’s heard in a while. Perhaps ever. Sherlock isn’t usually so hesitant.

“I would not be adverse to the idea. If, at any point in the proceedings, you change your mind, you need only leave and we will say nothing more of the incident.”

She turns her head a little, looking back over her shoulder. He’s still at the sink, hands white knuckled, posture as rigid as before. He hasn’t moved, and she’s sure he’s serious; if she goes upstairs now, he’ll never bring this up again.

But then. The cabin-fever irritation is prickling at the back of her neck, and she suspects the coldest of showers won’t be able to put her to sleep now.

She turns fully, and holds out a hand, palm up. It’s less a welcome than an instruction - if a polite one. “Your place or mine?”

He closes the gap between them almost before she registers the movement, but as soon as he places his hand in hers she wrenches him toward her, or herself toward him, and her other hand is flat on his chest, her face uplifted to his. He’s not that much taller than her but this close the smallest of differences is apparent; the heat of his skin under her fingertips, the faintly acrid smell of his sweat against the everpresent dust of the brownstone.

His other hand is in the small of her back, thumb sliding under the waistband of her running shorts, and she clenches her fist around his where she holds it. He pauses.

“Some ground rules.”

“Of course.” His voice is soft, low. Husky. She almost gives in and kisses him on the spot. She takes a breath and tries again, “Neither of us uses this against the other in the morning, or at any other time. Given your proclivities I’m taking it as read that you’ve kept up to date with various health checks, as have I -” that gets a microscopic eyebrow-raise from him, but she continues, “- and that you have some form of barrier method on hand. True?”

His breath whispers against the side of her neck as he speaks, and she shivers. “I do. As to the rest, I agree. Given that, I assume, neither of us wants to take two flights of stairs right now, this is happening in my quarters?”

His hand on her back pulls her closer, and she can feel the heat of him through his pants and hers.

“That’d be fine.”

“Very well.”

His face pulls away from her for barely an instant before he leans down again, his mouth finding hers. She keeps her eyes open, only able to see that he’s closed his and that his eyelashes are longer than she’d noticed before. She breathes in, tasting the spice of whatever he’d eaten for dinner, smelling the tang of rubber from the boxing dummy -

His free hand skids up her back to grasp a fistful of her hair, gripping gently but firmly. He pulls back, opening his eyes to study her face.

“This will only work, Watson, if you stop thinking about it so hard. I understand that paying attention is a difficult habit to break, but -” he drops his mouth to her shoulder and his lips seal on her skin, teeth scraping lightly as he sucks, hard, at the base of her neck. She lets her eyes fall shut, letting out a faint groan. He lets go, licking the swollen skin with the tip of his tongue, then kissing it gently. “You must learn to pay attention to the right things, Watson.”

Joan hooks her fingers into the waistband of his trackpants and pulls him hard against her. He lifts his head, eyes shut, a barely perceptible smile on his lips.

“Understood,” she murmurs. “Also, another rule. No leaving any trace of this that anyone else might notice.”

“Of course,” he opens his eyes again, looking down into her face with just a trace of a smirk. “Of course, there are multiple ensembles that you might wear to the precinct that would more than adequately cover -”

Grabbing the waistband of his pants in her fist, she takes a decisive step backward toward Sherlock’s dark bedroom. He shuts up.

There are a few things to clear out of the way before they make it to the bed (a bed! not a hammock!). One of her running shoes is discarded next to a box of cold case files, the other is kicked under a chess table. Her tank top ends up on the floor next to her shorts, which are in turn beside some kind of chemical experiment taking place in sealed mason jars in a dark corner of the room. Her hair tie is dropped, and no amount of searching the next day would find it again.

On the cusp of unhooking her bra, Joan pauses, looking over Sherlock where he stands silhouetted by the light from the kitchen, en route to the bed. “You’re still dressed.”

He looks down. “As much as I ever was, I suppose.”

“You know what I mean,” she reaches toward him, placing her hands on his hips and sliding fingertips under the waistband of the trackpants.

“We share a laundry basket, Watson,” he raises an eyebrow, his expression hard to read in the dim room. “You can hardly be wondering whether it’s ‘boxers or briefs’.”

“True,” she smirks, “it depends on the outfit. But context is everything. I might be wondering how they look.” She presses her mouth to the hollow at the base of his throat, smiling as she feels stubble rough against her lips.

“In that case I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” his hands rest on her shoulders so lightly she can barely feel them, and his gaze seems to be fixed on the ceiling. “It’s a ‘commando’ day, I’m sorry to say.”

Joan laughs softly, resting her forehead against his clavicle. “I’ll have to add that to the list of things I’d never expected you to say.” She pushes the waistband down, one hand resting on his hip and the other unhooking the elastic from his erection. He draws in a breath, the muscles of his stomach tensing, but she doesn’t touch him - yet. The trackpants pool around his feet, and she steps away.

His room is dim, the kitchen light obscuring as much as it illuminates. He’s a dark shape against the open doorway, all planes of pale skin, his tattoos shadows upon shadows. Sherlock tilts his head, raises his hands a little from his sides. “You have me at something of a disadvantage, Watson.”

She raises her eyebrows, and reaches behind herself to unhook her bra. Facing into the light, she realises he has a much better view of her than she does of him. Distantly she wonders if that should make her shy. Somehow it doesn’t.

Her underwear drops to the floor, and she watches his face closely. His eyes are dark, the line of his mouth hard to read. His jaw tenses for a moment, and she thinks she sees him swallow.

She reaches for him again, a hand on each hip turning him until his face catches the light from the kitchen. He looks at her, expression open in the way it sometimes is. His gaze lingers on her mouth, flickers down to her throat, her breasts. His lips are parted, nostrils flared, pupils dilated.

Joan takes his hands in hers, feels the thudding of his radial artery under her fingertips. “Any particular requests?”

He blinks, seeming to come back to himself. When he speaks, his voice is entirely too composed. “Not at all,” he wets his lips. “I am entirely at your disposal.”

She smiles, “Good.” She puts his hands against her hips, presses them there, then reaches up to take his head in her hands, kissing him. He complies instantly, eyes falling shut. She tilts her head, taking a moment to focus on the texture of his mouth. On the warmth of his tongue against the corner of her lips. On the faint exhalation of his breath as she pulls him closer and feels his cock press against her hip.

His fingers squeeze a little harder into her, but his hands don’t move. She nips at his lower lip with her teeth, smiling, “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Another hitch in his breath.

“You’re allowed to touch me, you know.”

She feels muscles tense in his shoulders, a spasm in his jaw. Still he doesn’t move.

She drags one hand down his chest and lower, taking his cock in her fist and stepping closer, pressing his erection flat against her stomach with one hand. His breath catches again and he opens his eyes, watching her face intently.

“Sherlock.”

He doesn’t answer, just watches her, just keeps breathing.

“Touch me.”

His hands move, one sliding over her buttock and the other shifting to rest in the small of her back. They’re pressed together hip to chest, her hand caught between them, their faces almost uncomfortably close and his expression intent. Joan tightens her grip on his cock, on the back of his neck, and lifts her chin to kiss him again.

His stubble is rough, and as she begins to stroke him his breath rasps on a sharp exhale. He tastes of green tea, smells of lemongrass, and she inhales deeply. “You had Thai for dinner.”

His reply is muffled against her cheek, “Is that really relevant to the task at hand?”

“It is,” she combs her fingers across his scalp, “if the food in question was mine.”

“You have my solemn oath that I will make it up to you, Watson,” his fingertips on her back make small circles, the hand cupping her buttock pulls her infinitesimally closer, “if you will similarly swear to revisit this subject at a _later time_.”

“Sure,” she smiles against his throat. “Just let me leave myself a reminder.” Her lips seal on the base of his neck, low enough to be covered by his shirt collar, and she sucks hard, hearing him chuckle then hum in pleasure as he lifts his chin to give her better access. He moves one hand to cradle the back of her head, and when she breaks off to breathe his fingers press gently into the muscles at the base of her skull.

With effort, she lets go of him a moment and steps back. “Before I forget. Barrier method?”

He indicates the beside cabinet with a nod, “Top drawer.”

She sits on the side of the bed, pulling the drawer open. There’s a scattering of condoms in various colours, and other shapes deeper in the drawer she can’t quite make out. “Huh. I think some of these are meant to be glow-in-the-dark.”

“Athena has an odd sense of humour. If they are not to your taste, there are other options. Speaking of other options, I should mention -”

She feels inside the drawer, feeling leather slide against her hand. “Indeed,” she pulls out the flogger, turning to him with a faint smile.

Seated at the foot of the bed, he waves one hand vaguely. “Additionally, the second and third drawers have a range of implements you should recognise from the articles I asked you to read on the difference between truly violent perversion and the BDSM community’s edict of ‘safe, sane and consensual.’”

“What _I_ didn’t mention at the time,” she swings the flogger from her fingertips, letting the soft suede trail across the palm of her other hand, “is that a lot of that wasn’t new to me.”

“…Oh?”

Joan looks up, smirking. “But is any of that really relevant to the task at hand?”

Sherlock laughs softly, moving to crawl up the bed. She shifts to lean against the headboard, flogger still in hand, and he props himself on one elbow, his arm across her lap. “As I said, Watson, I am quite at your disposal. I am familiar with the contents of those drawers - both in their use and their effects - and I’m happy to oblige you with any of them. If you would prefer a more straightforward experience, that would also be enjoyable.”

She reaches out to touch his hair, tousled and still sweat-damp. He tilts his head, pressing into her touch, quietly watching her face. She wonders what he sees there.

“I appreciate your generosity. But what do you want?”

“Would you prefer me to take the lead?”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” impatient, she makes a fist, pulling gently on his hair, and he makes a pleased ‘ _ungf_ ’ noise.

“Watson,” he blinks up at her when she lets go, “I would very much like to have sex with you. What form that takes, and with what additions, I honestly don’t care. In the interest of expediency -”

“Only you would use a word like ‘expediency’ right now -”

“- I will simply proceed to touch you and if there something you dislike, or would like more of, you need only say so. Is that satisfactory?”

“Just one question.” She shifts her weight, spreading her knees slightly. The arm he’d draped across her lap moves, one hand going to rest on her thigh. She lifts the flogger, “May I use this on you?”

He grins, then, the wolfish expression almost entirely unfamiliar on his face. “Please do.” And he drops his head to kiss her leg, his stubble rough on the smooth skin of her upper thigh. She pulls at his hair again and he wriggles down the bed, nestling between her thighs as he continues to kiss his way - now with an edge of teeth, now whispersoft - upwards. Joan keeps one hand in his hair, stroking back over the curve of his skull. With the other she drapes the long, suede tails of the flogger over his shoulder. She feels him shiver, and shivers herself as he sighs across her sweat-damp skin.

He runs one hand up the inside of her thigh, the warmth of his fingertips burning like a brand. When he brushes the back of his knuckles against her damp pubic hair she tries not to flinch, feeling even that not-contact as something electric.

She drags the flogger slowly over his shoulder, lifting it until only the tips of the strands brush over his spine. Scapula shift under skin, as if he’s trying to lift his back for more contact. She turns the handle in her fingers, then flicks it, the strands gently slapping against his back.

His fingers find her then, spreading her folds apart before he presses his mouth against her, laving at her with the flat of his tongue.

Her breath hisses, her head falls back against the wall. She tries not to think of how long it’s been, tries to focus instead on the rasp of his stubble and the unbearable warmth of his mouth. Her hand on his head combs again and again through his hair, her fingertips finding the small soft place behind his ear, feeling muscles flex as he presses his face into her, as he devours her like a starving man.

Joan takes a deep breath, adjusts her grip on the flogger. Flicks it again. And again, harder. Sherlock’s moan is muffled, she feels it reverberate through her. The leather snaps against his skin and his muscles shudder, she looks down to see his eyes tight shut and his brow furrowed. _Crack_. His eyes snap open and he breaks away from her to gasp, then dives in again.

“Sherlock -” her breath seems to tremble in her throat. “Was that too much?” His arms are under her thighs, hands gripping tight, fingers leaving indents in her flesh. He shakes his head - or is he just moving his mouth across her? She tugs at his hair, tries to pull his head back. “Sherlock, you need to talk to me.”

He blinks, looking up at her. In the dim light his eyes look glassy, his mouth and chin shine wet. When he speaks, his voice is so ragged she has to catch her breath.

“More. Please.”

She manages a nod and he drops his face again, jaw open wide against her as she strikes him again and again, as the leather raises weals on his back, darkening his tattoos, shadows on shadows on shadows. He seals his lips against her and begins to suck and her grip falters, her head falls back and she hears her breath shaking. He pulls her hips closer to him, moans as she drops the flogger and cradles his head in both hands, running her nails over his scalp. Joan closes her eyes and lifts her chin, gasping for air as she tilts her hips against him, her thighs and stomach tensing, feeling herself seize up as her breath stalls silent in her throat. Then release as the tension unspools all at once and his mouth is suddenly gentle, tongue soft, smoothing kisses on her inner thighs as he backs away a little. Boneless, she lets herself sag into the pillows against the headboard.

Sherlock wipes his mouth on his upper arm, watching her with dark eyes and a faint smile. He doesn’t move or speak for a long moment, just strokes lazy circles up and down the length of her thigh. She pushes damp hair back from her face and blinks at him, trying to remember how to speak.

“Water?” he asks, at length. She smiles and nods, and he gingerly gets up, padding out of the room. She hears the faucet running and then he’s back with a tall glass, wrapping one of her hands around it. She sips, clearing her throat (did she make a sound when she came? she can’t remember), then sets it down.

“We can leave it -” he begins, but cuts himself off with the ghost of a smile as she reaches for him.

“Thought you said you were at my disposal,” she runs a hand down his side, from ribs to thigh, and is gratified to see him close his eyes and shiver.

“Very well. And what would you ask of me?”

She presses the almost forgotten condom into his hand, pulling him back onto the bed to kneel over her. As he fiddles with the packaging she leans up to kiss him, breathing deeply as she tastes herself in him, nipping gently at his lower lip with her teeth. Her hands stroke up from his arms over his shoulders, feeling the skin at the back of his neck much warmer where the flogger struck him.

He breaks off, breath hissing. “You are not helping my concentration, Watson.”

“Sorry,” she opens her eyes wide, smiling, “am I meant to be helping?”

Sherlock doesn’t quite growl but he does frown with mock severity, pushing her back with one hand on her shoulder and reaching the other hand for her knee, lifting her leg and pulling her closer with one movement. She wriggles closer still, canting her hips up toward him as he positions himself between her thighs. She reaches down to help guide him in and he catches her hand gently, stopping her.

“Would you indulge me a moment and put your hands behind you, Watson? I’m afraid if you t-touch me just now I may not last a moment longer.”

She blinks. He actually stuttered. Silently she puts her hands under the pillow behind her head and stays still, watching as he carefully takes himself in hand and eases forward. At the first brush of contact she has to close her eyes for a moment as she tries not to moan, at the heat of him, at the almost unbearable frictionless glide of the length of his cock against her slick cunt. He steadies himself with one hand on the mattress beside her, the other braced against her hip, and slowly enters her. His brow is furrowed deeply, eyes squeezed shut, his bottom lip between his teeth.

For a long, still, moment he is frozen there above her. Still relaxed, she takes advantage of the chance to simply look at him, at the lines of his body taut as a bowstring, the quivering of his breath across her skin.

“Sherlock,” she whispers, and he opens his eyes. They’re dark, colourless, and he stares at her as if he’s forgotten how to speak. She shifts, planting her feet flat on the bed and lifting her hips to meet his, smiling as he drops his head to her shoulder and moans. The muscles in his arms are trembling. “It’s alright,” she reaches for him, runs her nails down his back, "it’s alright.”

He begins to move, then, supporting himself on one hand, the other arm wrapped around her waist as she grips his arms, cradles his head, kisses any part of him that she can reach. His breath is loud in her ear, almost but not quite voiced. She rises to meet him, matches his pace, the muscles in her thighs shuddering. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, mouth pressed open against her skin as he seems to struggle to breathe, and his hand on her back stammers. She clenches herself around him as she feels him tense inside her, hips stuttering. It doesn’t take long. When he comes it’s with a cry, cut off as he turns his head and kisses her fervently, all artifice and artistry abandoned, stroking her cheek with a shaking hand.

She smooths back his hair and kisses him, smiling against his mouth.

 

***

 

Sherlock is wrenched out of sleep the next morning, by some ungodly noise coming from the kitchen, something that sounds like a big-top circus crashed into a full size pipe organ - only worse. He scrambles out of bed, throwing open his parlour door without stopping for clothes.

Watson is sitting at the kitchen table, impeccably dressed in black and white, playing a bright red piano accordion. She looks up, and grins at him. “Good morning.”

“Watson.”

“The Captain phoned. We have a case. Coffee?”

“Watson, what is that?”

“Oh this?” she unstraps the instrument from her torso, laying it gently on the table. It gives a sad little wheeze as she puts it down. “Just a little something I've been saving for a special occasion.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to regain some composure. “I wasn’t aware you played.”

“Oh I think we both know I’m a woman of hidden depths,” she smirks at him, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder. “Now come on, you need to get dressed.”


End file.
